


Weston College of Witchcraft and Wizardry

by thaliaarche



Series: Weston College of Witchcraft and Wizardry [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Chaos, Crack, Crack Crossover, Crossdressing, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fluff, M/M, Minor Allusions to Everything, Multi, Other Fandoms Not Mentioned in Tags, Prophecy, Tea, Weird Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-12 05:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7923196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thaliaarche/pseuds/thaliaarche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three freshmen request single rooms for their first year at Weston College of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Three freshmen get their requests denied and are instead placed in a room together. The three freshmen are Draco Malfoy, Loki Odinson, and Ciel Phantomhive.</p><p>What could possibly go wrong?</p><p>(Knowledge of the main three fandoms is helpful but by no means required.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Premise: Characters with superhuman abilities from a huge array of fandoms all exist in the same magical universe. The most powerful/most privileged end up at Weston College, one of this universe's most prestigious universities.
> 
> There are quite a few relationships in this story, but I won't be tagging them yet. You'll have to wait and see :-P

Freshman Draco Malfoy stands on his desk with a paintbrush, tracing an intricate, swirling silver square on the whitewashed wall of his new dorm room. Once he finishes the shape, he uncorks a vial of forest-green potion and pours a few drops that immediately spread in all directions, stopping at the silver border. He takes a step back, watching the rich, deep green coat the wall . . .  
  
"Why are you in my room?"  
  
Draco nearly topples off the edge of the desk, but he catches himself and turns to see the willowy young man who silently slipped through the force-field door. With sleek, dark hair falling to his shoulders and sharp green eyes over a sharper Grecian nose, he wears a well-cut gray overcoat, tailored trousers, and a green merino scarf.  
  
"Your room?" Draco climbs off the table, straightening his own black blazer and tightening his hunter green tie. "I'm afraid you've misunderstood. I quite clearly requested a single room."  
  
"As did I."  
  
"Well, I'm sure my request went through. You see, my father is a much-appreciated donor of this university . . ."  
  
"So is mine."

"Oh, I'm sure all donors are much appreciated," Draco chuckles, shaking his head, "but my father happens to be at the elite level— you know, they don't disclose the exact amounts, but our name's on the short list for the naming of the new library . . ."

"So is mine."

Draco stops mid-sentence.

"There's clearly been an error," the other man shrugs. "The force-field door let me in without any trouble, and this is quite a spacious suite, just as I'd been told to expect.” He glances around. "It's got the guest bedroom and everything . . ."

He stops mid-sentence as well.

"Clearly an error," Draco says, but with less conviction in his voice.

The other man nods and then tilts his head with a curious glint in his eye. "What is it you were doing with that potion?"

"It's a special alchemical paint I invented," Draco says with no small pride. "It fills in the silver lines by itself."

"I suppose it’s not removable?"

"Not at the moment," Draco smirks. "I'm planning to figure out the dissolver sometime this year."

The other man, far from being irked, smiles serenely. "That's not a problem for me, actually. That shade of green's one of my favorite colors, anyway."

"Glad to help." Rolling his eyes, Draco clambers onto the table again and resumes painting, turning his back to the intruder.

Yet the man keeps talking. "You know, an illusion would accomplish the same effect far more efficiently."

"Only a master illusionist could pull that off," Draco snorts. "What with the particular sheen and luster . . ."

"Like this?"

Draco whirls around to see the entire opposite wall covered in silver loops and green paint, perfectly matching his own design. He narrows his eyes. "Is it permanent?"

"Only a master illusionist could take it down," the man replies with a blank expression, yet Draco can hear smugness in his voice.

Draco looks down at his vial of paint— small, yet already half-spent— and sighs. "I don't suppose you could do that for the rest of the walls."

"I suppose I could." The man snaps his fingers this time— for extra drama— and all the walls are decorated with green and looping silver.

"Shall I do the upholstery to match?"

"That'd be fine," Draco says coolly.

Another snap, and the whole room is done up in shades of green and gray. Before he can stop himself, Draco admits, "It looks marvelous."

"Thank you for the design idea," the other man nods.

Suddenly, a third man walks into the room— small, dressed in blue from head to toe, with shaggy black hair and an eyepatch— then stops short and scowls. "What the hell are you all doing in my room?!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spy a Super Mario reference.

“All right, let’s calm down." The illusionist holds up a hand, glancing warily at the newest visitor’s eyepatch.  
  
“Don’t tell me what to do,” the intruder snaps back. “I’ve caught you, and now you’ll talk. Are you stealing something? Placing a curse? That, that vial you’ve got there, is it poison?”

Draco looks down at the vial of green paint still in his hand and raises his eyebrows. “Poison?”  
  
“Yes, poison, you dimwit, that thing that kills you if you drink it or touch it— oh, goodness, you’ve poisoned the walls, haven’t you?” The man in blue laughs. “That’s a lovely delivery system, almost clever for long-term chronic poisoning, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve got every detector and antidote known to man and more packed in my suitcase. Really, do you think you’re dealing with an amateur, here?”  
  
“I don’t actually know who we’re dealing with,” the illusionist answers. “Why don’t we introduce ourselves before making any more criminal accusations?”

“Hmph." The blue-clad accuser straightens up to his full height of five feet. “I’m Ciel Phantomhive, _Earl_ of Britannia.” He draws out the title.

“I’m Draco Malfoy, _High_ _Earl_ of Britannia,” Draco shoots back.

“I’m Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgardia,” the other man in green murmurs, intensely examining his black, lacquered fingernails as Draco gapes.

Ciel simply sniffs. “Well, your pedigrees are remarkable, if they’re true . . . But at any rate they fail to explain why you’re here. After all, I most certainly made clear that I require a single room . . .”

“We both did, too,” Draco groans. “I think we’d better go down and talk to the Residential Life Office, don’t you?”

They sprint to the office and wait in line for an hour, ignoring each other while listening in on other conversations (“I don’t care if the prophecy says you're soulmates, a man and a woman cannot room together!"). When they finally reach the front, the red-faced witch at the help desk informs them that one of the dorms has been badly scorched in an unfortunate fire— the plumber had a rather ugly run-in with a dragon— so all students have roommates this year. Draco and Ciel’s increasingly impassioned threats fail to move her: “So what if your father hears about this? Do I look like I give a damn?”

Loki finally cuts in, still entirely calm. “How can there be three of us when there’s only two bedrooms?”

She glances down at a record book. “There’s a pull-out mattress under the couch in the main room.”

Even Loki’s blank expression cracks for a moment, and Draco shudders in horror. “You mean one of us has to sleep _right next to the ground_?”

"Yes,” the witch slams her hand on her desk. “Now get out and stop holding up the line!”

“I’m not taking it,” Draco states as soon as they leave the office. “I need a proper bed.”

“Unless you’ve got spinal issues or something of the sort, you ‘want’ it rather than ‘need’ it,” Loki fires back at once. “I, however, actually need a room of my own. I’ve got a routine of practicing my most difficult illusions every night, and I require privacy.”

“Illusions of scantily clad women, right?” Draco leers.

"Never heard that one before." Loki’s brow darkens. “Careful, you’re reminding me of Thor . . .”

"I want the couch,” Ciel breaks into the brewing argument.

“You want it?” Loki glances at him skeptically.

“To be precise, I _need_ it.”

Loki and Draco look at each other, then shrug.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montage!

The peace is short-lived.  
  
“The cafeteria food is not quite up to the standards I expect,” Draco says, shaking his head. “My house elves could teach them a thing or two.”  
  
“At the table of Asgardia’s palace, we have desserts dressed with gold every night,” Loki remarks dreamily.  
  
"It’s probably fake,” Draco snipes.  
  
"The house of Odin has no need to fake gold,” Ciel interrupts. “That’s more the Malfoys’ area.”  
  
"My aunt makes just one self-replicating gold cup, and now I never hear the end of it!”  
  
"It doesn’t matter." Ciel waves his hand. “My butler’s a fussy old thing if I ever saw one, useless to boot, but the little trifles he whips up could put even a royal palace to shame.”

* * *

  
"I might double major in illusions and magical languages," Loki monologues as the roommates flip through their course catalogues. "I’ll take Medieval Latin, obviously, and the Elvish tragedy class— ah, it’s an odd dialect, but I should be able to pick it up in a day or two. And I want a calligraphy course to improve my spellwriting. Not Runes again, I’ve known those for ages . . . Ooh, kanji! Yep, I’m officially getting out the brushes this term. The spellcasting chorus looks fun, and maybe Introduction to Theoretical Arithmancy will round it off . . .”  
  
Draco simply snorts, "Yeah, right."  
  
Loki smiles. "You think I can't do it?"  
  
“Everyone knows you can’t,” Ciel cuts in. “The Prophecy of Asgardia states as much. ‘The children of Asgardia will lack in brains but make it up in brawn, and every man shall rule on the battlefield and find a queen to rule his heart.’”  
  
“What the— you actually memorized that thing?” Draco gapes at Ciel. “What are you, a walking encyclopedia?”  
  
“That’s not a good translation,” Loki mutters. "The Prophecy’s so much more poetic than that . . .”  
  
“It gets the job done,” Ciel finishes.  
  
“Yeah, and it shows that there’s no way you’re taking all those classes and passing," Draco says, turning back to Loki. “That’s got to hit the absolute max number of credits— 25, right?”  
  
Ciel nods.  
  
“My planned schedule actually sums up to 27 credits,” Loki replies smoothly. “I talked to the deans about making an exception.”

Ciel looks at him curiously, and Draco sputters, “What kind of Asgardian are you—”  
  
“What are you planning to take this term, Malfoy?” Loki talks over him.  
  
“Ah . . .” Draco looks down at his own course catalogue, caught slightly off-guard. “I’ve known I’m going to be a lawyer since I was five— four generations of Malfoy lawyers running— and my major doesn’t matter as much to law school. I’ll try out Applied Potions . . .”  
  
“Theoretical Potions is far more intellectually rigorous,” Loki murmurs.

“Stick to your linguistics, Odinson.” Draco shoots him a look. “I need Intro to Theoretical Arithmancy for that, and I’ll double up on Potions core courses for a solid 20 credits. The core’s supposed to be hell on earth, you know, extremely rigorous. What about you, Phantomhive?”  
  
“Remedial Latin, Cross-Cultural Etiquette, and— at my butler’s insistence— Beginning Dance. 13 credits, and I’m done.” Ciel looks at their confused faces. “What, haven’t you two got anything better to do at college than schoolwork?”  
  
"How did he even get in?" Draco whispers to Loki when he thinks Ciel isn't paying attention. Loki keeps flipping through his catalogue, pointedly refusing to answer.

* * *

  
On the morning of their first day of classes, Loki sips green tea, eyeing Draco’s steaming coffee mug over the rim of his teacup. “Really, you should take up tea— I can hardly even smell the fragrance of my blend, what with your espresso shots stinking up the room.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ciel cuts in, pouring his own loose-leaf tea out of a fresh linen pouch, into the strainer of his personal porcelain teapot.  
  
“All you ever drink is the cafeteria green tea. You wouldn’t know a fragrant blend if it hit you in the face.”  
  
“I like green tea,” Loki says, shrugging. “Do you expect me to apologize?”  
  
“If I could turn things green, I could feed you a bloody cup of lapsang souchong, and you’d never know the difference,” Ciel retorts.  
  
“Well, I regret to remind you that you can’t turn things green,” Loki replies, not sounding regretful at all.  
  
“No, that’s your area of expertise,” Ciel snaps back. “I can’t believe you two turned everything green before I even stepped into the suite. The navy of the House of Phantomhive should be represented somewhere.”  
  
“Well, I can’t expend enough energy to remove the illusions,” Loki sighs, “not with classes starting.”  
  
“And I can’t spend the time to make the dissolver,” Draco smirks, “not with classes starting.”  
  
“How convenient.”  
  
“Well, you two can take your tea and shove it, as far as I’m concerned,” Draco remarks, slurping from his cup. “The coffee shop’s roaster’s charmed to make my espresso perfectly, exactly the way I like it. None of this nonsense of heating water to ‘exactly 175 degrees to keep your less oxidized green tea from wilting—’” he glances at Loki—“or whatever it is you do with your weird strainer and your new blend of leaves every day.” At that, he looks at Ciel.  
  
“My butler’s a silly old sod, but how could he work for the House of Phantomhive if he couldn’t send me a new blend every day?”  
  
“You’re high-maintenance,” Draco mutters.  
  
“Excuse me." Ciel shoots to his feet, “I’m not the one who was bragging about having five house elves waiting on me hand and foot since age two.”  
  
“Just because they were there didn’t mean I actually made them work all the time . . ."  
  
“The linguistically accurate term,” Loki interrupts, “is house-gnome, and the actual elves don’t feel it’s appropriate at all . . .”  
  
They proceed to all talk at once, squabbling until they leave for class.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spy references to Tokyo Ghoul, the Journey into Mystery comics and Assassin's Creed.

Classes begin. Loki darts between classrooms, choir practice, the cafeteria, and the library, returning to his suite promptly by ten each night. Draco skips some classes and goes to others, making sure to sit as far from Loki in Arithmancy as possible. He lounges around the coffee shop, works on his homework in assorted common rooms, and always gets back to his suite by midnight.

The two of them assume Ciel goes to classes, and Draco sometimes sees the earl at the coffee shop, systematically trying all its specialty pastries (“I’m glad that merpeople appropriation scandal got Starbucks kicked out— this shop, Anteiku, is a truly delightful replacement”). Ciel is always asleep in their living room before they come back, and he is always awake before they are, letting in the birds who tap on their window in the morning. An owl brings messages from Malfoy Manor, a raven delivers short letters and pouches of new tea blends from Phantomhive Manor, and a small, black-blue-and-green bird shows up every once in a while, gripping spare change, strange herbs, and scraps of paper in its beak . . .

“Odinson, your magpie is pecking at my signet ring again!” Ciel shouts. “Get it off!”

“It’s not my magpie. I don’t know where it came from, and I really don’t know why it tries to steal everything in sight,” Loki drones, half-asleep voice muffled by his closed door.

“Maybe you shouldn’t wear such a pretentious stone on your finger, Phantomhive,” Draco calls from his own room. “Only the poor need to flaunt their wealth.”

“Malfoy, it’s stealing the gold leaf from your potions project!”

“Son of a—” Draco dashes out of his room, wearing boxers and a half-buttoned green shirt, just in time to see the magpie flying back out of the room with a stack of gold flakes in its beak. “Odinson!” He storms across the living room, nearly tripping over his own owl, and throws the door to Loki’s room open. “Your bird just took half of— what are you wearing?”

Glass shatters, and a green cloud swallows up the room. Ciel runs over.

“Don’t creep up on me like that!” Loki’s voice— raised, for the first time this school year— sounds from somewhere in the fog. Cloth rustles, trunks slam open and shut, and a lock clicks into place.

“That’s a military-style smoke bomb!” Draco stumbles out of the room. “Why do you have that?”

“In case someone tries to ambush me, you dolt!”

“And your first reflex is to throw one at your roommate?” Draco shouts into the cloud.

“Be glad that my first reflex isn’t to smash out your brains with a hammer!”

“Why would anyone smash out brains with a hammer?” Draco throws up his hands. “I knew Asgardia was militaristic, but seriously . . .”

“Odinson, how are you still functioning in the cloud?” Ciel cuts in with a bark. “Is the powder charmed to be invisible to you? Have you got magical goggles on? If so, I want a pair . . ."

“He doesn’t have goggles on,” Draco smirks. “He doesn’t have anything on except a lacy nightgown.”

Ciel flinches, then peers into the room.

“Malfoy,” Loki calls from the smoke, “The main reason you are still alive is that it would be a shame to dirty my beautiful illusionary upholstery with your blood.”

“Wha—” Draco sputters. “What are you two so serious about? So what if you like a bit of lingerie, I’m not going to crucify you for it . . .”

“Asgardia might,” Ciel remarks.

Draco’s mouth snaps shut.

“No, no. You’re right, I overreacted.” As the cloud dissipates, Loki emerges from the room, now clad in a white button-down shirt, black trousers, and an olive-colored belt. His voice is soft as silk once more. “It’s hardly as if I make a habit of dressing so shamelessly.”

“Of course not,” Ciel replies too quickly.

"I did it as a stunt as part of secret society recruitment," Loki explains. “Obviously, I can’t say more, because it’d spoil the secret.”

Draco raises his eyebrows. "Are secret societies even real?"

"Of course they are," Ciel says. "Did you miss the wagons full of hay outside the bell tower?"

"What has hay got to do with anything?" Draco exclaims.

"Everything," says Loki. "Or perhaps nothing at all. If you'll excuse me, I need to use the restroom."

He retreats into his room, shuts the door, and noisily drags a trunk in front, bolstering the defenses against future invasion.

"Secret societies— do you actually buy that?" Draco says to Ciel.

"What matters is that we now have plausible deniability—” Ciel shrugs— "in case Asgardia ever comes knocking."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one detail in this chapter that might not be explored further within this fic. However, I think there is a possibility that I will extend this universe into a much larger-scale series, and that detail would be helpful in setting up events many months in the future. So I decided to include it . . .


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, a wild update has appeared!

“Odinson!”

"‘snotmybird,” Loki slurs, shifting in his bed.

Draco bangs on Loki’s door again. “Get up!”

A few moments later, Loki opens the door, wearing shorts and a green nightshirt. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“Listen, I just had a dream about the solution to my Potions problem—”

“Forgive my lack of scholarly zeal,” Loki interrupts while rubbing his eyes, “but it’s four in the morning, and, unless your Potions dreams double as prophecies about the fate of the world, I. Don’t. Care.”

“Well, I got out of bed and went to my desk to write it down,” Draco continues on as if Loki hadn’t spoken, “which is when I realized Phantomhive wasn’t in his bed.”

“So you woke me up to announce that our roommate went to the bathroom?”

“He’s not there either,” Draco says. “He’s not in the room at all.”

Loki pauses mid-rub, then slowly lowers his hands from his eyes. “But the force field on the door is impenetrable after curfew.”

“Well—” Draco takes a sharp breath— “that’s not quite true.”

Loki’s eyes twinkle at that. “No, it’s not. But still, I don’t see how Phantomhive could have gotten out, and I really don’t know why he’d want to. The rules are terribly strict on that point.”

“Quite so.”

“It’s a curious matter.”

They stare at the door, the purple threads of the force field glimmering in the darkness. After a moment, Draco mutters, “Technically, a master illusionist would be able to cloak us and get us through the force field.”

Loki glances at him. “True, but I do not think our roommate used that particular method. As far as I can tell, he has no knack for illusions whatsoever.”

“He might have a device that actively disrupts force fields,” Draco muses. “That’d be in violation of multiple rules, of course.”

“Such a device would likely leave behind a magical signature,” Loki adds, “I suppose a master alchemist could fashion a tracker to trace that signature.”

Their eyes meet.

“I’ll have the tracker done in ten minutes.”

“I’ll have the illusions done in five.”

And thus, within ten minutes, they are ready to break through the impenetrable door.

“I’ll cast some standard personal stealth charms, to try and avoid staff attention,” Draco says. “I assume you can do the same.”

“Of course— though Asgardia doesn’t teach its children about stealth, I’ve taken pains to learn some charms regardless,” Loki remarks. “I suppose stealth education is customary for Malfoys?”

Draco’s jaw tightens at that, and he doesn’t answer, instead looking down at the tracker he has cobbled together. It is a glass orb, broken, filled with gel and then fused back together. Flakes of silver hang in the gel, quivering when they pick up on a disruptor’s signature. He holds it up and explains, “If we follow the path that keeps the silver shaking, then we should find Ciel.”

“That’s a remarkably wrought device, provided it works as intended.”

“It works,” Draco replies. “Shall we?”

Loki frowns at the curt answer. He silently waves a hand, triggering his cloaking spell, and they sweep through the force field and out of the room. Silently, they follow Ciel’s path, which leads them through dark, echoey hallways into the administrative offices buried underground.

The tracker leads them to yet another force-field door, this one reinforced with a variety of multicolored layers.

“Where are we, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” Loki sighs. “At any rate, I’ll have to design an entirely new cloaking charm to get in. It might take as long as an hour, unfortunately . . .”

Just then, a voice rings from the room, its tone distorted by the force field. Draco and Loki simultaneously press their ears to the door, barely able to make out several curse words . . .

The force field turns to air, and they tumble forward into the room and smack onto the floor.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” Ciel shouts, standing over them. He brandishes a black contraption lined with glowing gold that both Loki and Draco recognize instantly as a high-end disruptor.

Loki begins, “We are—”

“Stalking you,” Draco immediately cuts in, “and doing a damn good job of it, too.”

“I was going to say we were worried for your wellbeing and wanted to make sure you were safe,” Loki finishes, seeming to deflate even as he stands up.

“What is this place?” Draco demands as he also surges to his feet. The room’s walls are dimly lit by paper lanterns— no doubt enchanted to be flame-resistant— and Draco can see nothing else but filing cabinets as far as the eye can see.

Ciel replies hastily: “I don’t know what it is, and we should leave at once . . .”

“It’s the admissions archive,” Loki murmurs. “I’ve seen pictures in one of those get-into-college handbooks— not that I needed to read such books regularly.”

Draco gazes down the infinite rows of drawers, storing the papers that fulfilled a few dreams and crushed so many others. “Why—” he asks with a near-reverent tone, “why are you here?”

“Are you checking that your admission wasn’t a mistake?” Loki asks.

“I know full well that I deserve to be here,” Ciel glares. “But I can’t say the same for certain others.”

Draco whips his head around. “Are you investigating us?”

“Surprise, surprise, my world doesn’t revolve around you two.” Ciel shakes his head, yawning. “No, I was investigating a certain other student— and, before you ask, I’m not in love with him. Unfortunately, the most interesting part of his files are encoded with Runes . . .”

Loki smiles. “Might I help?”

“No,” Ciel answers on reflex. Then . . . “Though your translation skills could speed this up by a few days.”

“Please allow me to assist you.”

“You two had better keep quiet about this.”

“I will,” Loki and Draco answer at once, their voices resounding through the shadowy hall.

Ciel leads them to the nearest filing cabinet— marked with their graduation year— opens one of the top drawers, and pulls out a file titled “Frost, Jack.”

“Here." He opens the file, revealing a high school transcript marred by C’s and D’s and disciplinary notations, and draws out a page covered with Runes. “This is a special letter filed on his behalf, but I can’t figure out what it’s even about.”

Loki snatches the page and looks over the lettering. “The phrasing’s terribly overblown, but the message is simple. According to the Official Department of Oracle Management, this Frost person is the top candidate for fulfilling some prophecy.”

Draco snorts at that. “Everybody’s got a prophecy these days. Why would that make him special enough to get in?”

“Have you got a prophecy, Malfoy?” Ciel says.

“Er. Well, perhaps not everybody,” Draco stutters. “As I said, having a prophecy isn’t all that special, so I’m not upset at not having one.”

“. . . Right.”

Loki continues scanning the paper. “Apparently this prophecy is inextricably linked to the welfare of Weston College.”

“And what does this prophecy say?” Ciel questions.

“I have no idea." Loki shrugs. “It’s not quoted here— classified information, apparently.”

Ciel frowns. “What level of classification? Look for a number between one and five . . .”

“Six.”

“What?” Ciel starts. “That means the people involved can’t even mention it. Who would assign Level Six to some prophecy about a little school?”

“Weston College is not a little school, it’s the most prestigious university in the . . .”    

“Oh, stuff it, Malfoy, you don’t have to sell me on my own college,” Ciel replies, eyes fixed on the paper. “But really, this is fascinating. This case must be more complex than I thought.”

“What case?” Draco throws up his hands. “What are you talking about?”

“Yes, Malfoy has a point,” Loki jumps in. “You’ve been extremely mysterious since the start of the school year, and I think you owe us an explanation.”

“I owe you nothing,” Ciel replies, rolling his eyes.

“We could help you,” Loki counters. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s clearly both sketchy and interesting, and I can be of use to you.”

“I suppose I can be too . . . provided your plans aren’t evil,” Draco adds quickly.

“No, no, I’m not evil— I’ve been tested,” Ciel responds. “It’s a True Neutral life for me.”

“Then we can help you,” Loki repeats.

Ciel looks at the two of them and groans. “Fine. Anteiku opens soon— I’ll grab breakfast and meet you back in the room, okay? And . . . I promise you some answers.”

“Perfect.” Loki puts back the paper and inserts the whole folder back into the filing cabinet. Then, the three skulk back out, now joined by secret bonds forged in the darkness of the forbidden grounds of a college admissions office.


	6. Chapter 6

“I don’t understand,” Draco complains over breakfast, gawping at Ciel while holding a half-eaten croissant in his hand.

“What is there to not understand? Britannia hands over its strangest mysteries to scions of the Phantomhive family, also known as ‘Watchdogs.’ I have been the Queen’s Watchdog for about five years now, following some odd business with an incompetent cult. I caught my first unlicensed necromancer at age thirteen, my first serial killer at age fifteen, and my first terrorist this summer, just before moving into the dorm. I’m still working, which is why I took the bed closest to the main door for easy sneaking.”

Draco massages his temples, straining to grasp these revelations. “So, Phantomhive, you were a thirteen-year-old royally-backed one-man international spy agency?”

“Well, I had help from that old butler of mine.”

Draco goes back to gawping.

"I don’t understand either,” Loki protests. “I hear a whole series of words and can comprehend practically nothing from them, because your entire story is _preposterous_.”

Ciel takes a sip of his own coffee, grimaces, and drops three more sugar cubes into his cup. “So keep asking questions.”

"What are you doing here,” Loki demands, “at Weston College?”

“Her Majesty, the Queen of Britannia, alternates my cases. She assigns me a serious case, then something lighter-hearted, then something serious again. I’m here for a light-hearted case.”

“So what are you investigating?” Draco asks.

“Her Majesty is curious about how Jack Frost obtained admission to this elite university, despite his spotty academic record and history of disciplinary issues.”

“Why would the Queen of Britannia care at all about college admissions . . .” Draco’s eyes widen with sudden understanding. “Oh lord, her kid didn’t get in.”

“I cannot speculate about Her Majesty’s motives . . .”

“Vicky’s jealous!” Draco crows. “Prince What’s-his-name got rejected, and now she sends her lapdog to figure out why!”

“He was waitlisted, not rejected,” Ciel shoots back, “and I’m not a lapdog, more of a mastiff.”

“You’re the Queen’s little puppy, Phantomhive, and . . .”

“All right, all right,” Loki cuts in. “So the prophecy is why Jack was admitted, correct?”

“That seems likely,” Ciel agrees. “Unfortunately, I can’t finish up this case and leave until I know what that prophecy said. It’s not a prophecy about Frost himself— I checked before I arrived, and there are no prophecies associated with him alone. And it can’t be a country-level prophecy, like the one about Asgardia. He’s from Britannia, and we don’t have anything like that.”

“You should look into his family,” Loki remarks. “Familial prophecies are quite common, are they not?”

“Of course,” Ciel nods. “And I’m already planning to have my butler investigate the Frosts. There are quite a few archives, you know, that collect esoteric information about magical families.” He pauses for a moment. “As a sign of goodwill, would you like me to have him look into your families? The extra queries shouldn’t slow him too dramatically, and you might learn something interesting.”

“I’d like that.” Loki nods his assent.

“I . . . wouldn’t,” Draco murmurs. “I don’t intend to learn more about the Malfoys than I have to.”

"That’s settled, then. I have to get ready for class— damn dance lessons, Baranovskaya marks you late unless you're five minutes early . . .” Grumbling, Ciel puts down his coffee, giving up halfway through the bitter cup, and he slips into the bathroom. When he goes, Draco gulps down the rest of his espresso, shoots to his feet, and heads straight for his room.

“Malfoy.”

Draco stops in his tracks. “What do you want, Odinson?”

"Did I offend you earlier? With that comment about stealth charms being normal in your family?” Upon receiving no response, he sighs. “I apologize. I didn’t say it out of malevolence.”

Draco turns. “Then why say it at all?”

“Envy.” The word slips out before he can stop it. “Not that I desire the whole legacy of the Malfoys. I’m not fond of evil— I don’t think you are, either.”

“Quite right.”

“But I am fond of darkness,” Loki admits, staring down at his glass of milk. “And I do wish Asgard was more accepting of shadows, and stealth, and various other associated concepts.”

He raises his eyes to meet Draco’s.

“I accept your apology,” Draco says, finally.

"I’m glad.” Loki gestures then at Draco’s croissant, still only half-eaten. “Would you like to have a little more? These pastries are tolerable, even if either of our families’ chefs could outdo them easily.”

“I would.” He returns to the table.

A few moments later, the magpie reappears at the window, pecking on the glass with a beak full of metal. Loki lets it in, and the bird alights on Draco’s desk, lays down the entire stack of gold flakes it had previously stolen, and flies out the window once more.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back!
> 
> Sorry about the unannounced hiatus. It shouldn't happen again.

“What in the world was that?” Loki asks as he and Draco leave their Arithmancy lecture together. “I’ve had some odd substitute teachers in my time, but this Professor Undertaker takes the cake!”

“He was fine until you walked in,” Draco smirks.

“Yes, I was a few minutes late from Elvish, but that hardly justifies him cracking up and laughing at me for the entire rest of the class!”

“He looked in that little book, first,” Draco says. “It looked like a Shinigami notebook— you know, the type that shows birthdays and names for people nearby.”

“My birthdate’s December 17, eighteen years back— and that’s a perfectly regular, well-established fact. Nothing funny there,” Loki gripes. “And what’s so amusing about ‘Loki Odinson’?”

Draco shrugs. “At any rate, I had a thought about that prophecy.”

"Oh?”

"Prophecies often cover a whole family, as you said. But there’s also a lot of prophecies just about soulmates.”

"Yes, I agree.”

"So do we know if Frost’s dating anyone?”

"I . . .” Loki shakes his head. “I’ve been too busy reading ancient Elvish romances to keep up with real-life ones.”

Draco snorts. “I’m not much better— Frost’s social stratum is far above mine.”

“Are Phantomhive and I in your stratum?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, that’s flattering,” Loki deadpans. “But are you implying that Frost’s one of the most popular members of our class?”

“Yes.”

“What a pity,” Loki winces. “That means I might be able get information on him, albeit at a high cost. I won’t try it until I confirm Frost is actually close to my . . . potential source.”

“What kind of cost?”

"Emotional,” he replies simply. “It might be worth it, though— we won’t get the information easily otherwise, not with a Level Six confidentiality rating at work. Now, where do popular students ‘hang out’? Sporting events, right?”

"Sounds right.”

"And there’s one happening now, isn’t there?”

"The race, yes.” Draco tuts, “Not nearly as refined as Quidditch . . .”

"Refined?” Loki looks at him skeptically. “Quidditch has balls called ‘Quaffles’ and ‘Bludgeons’ . . .”

"Bludgers.”

"That doesn’t help your case,” he says, shaking his head. “At any rate, we should get a pair of binoculars and head over to the stadium.”

"We?”

"I don’t know a thing about sports. You do, and so you may prove helpful. We are assisting Phantomhive together, aren’t we?”

"Yes,” Draco considers. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

* * *

"That’s the pool, not the track!”

"Why does Weston need so many athletic facilities?”

"Why can’t you get to any place that’s not a library?”

With great difficulty, Draco steers Loki to the racetrack, purchases an overpriced pair of binoculars from a vendor, and finds them two seats together in the top row, halfway through the race. The rest of the stadium’s already jam-packed, resounding with the crowd’s yell.

Athletes rush along the track, carried by a motley assortment of vectors. One elf woman flashes by on a bright green dragon, while a red-clad pair of siblings rolls hot on her tail— the sister hangs at the center of a purple force-field orb, while the brother runs at the bottom with magically enhanced speed, propelling the sphere forward. Loki recognizes a part-time librarian on a sled that generates its own snow, and then . . .

“What’s that odd horse with the wings?” Loki leans towards Draco to be heard over the crowd. “It doesn’t look like a proper pegasus.”

Draco flinches. “That’s a thestral. I can see it— anyone who’s personally seen a violent death can.”

“Despite Asgardia’s belligerence, I’ve never personally seen a violent death.”

"Maybe you don’t remember.”

Loki opens his mouth to argue, but then reaches his hand out. “Give me the binoculars.”

"What? Oh, right.” Draco hands him the binoculars, and Loki starts scanning the spectators at once.

"Hurry,” he urges, “the laps are already half-done.”

Loki hastens his search. Just as the first competitors cross the finish line, he exclaims, “I found Frost! And, dammit, he’s with that other person.”

As the crowd erupts into even louder cheering, Loki stuffs the binoculars back into Draco’s hands and slips away, lips pressed into a hard line. Draco takes up the binoculars himself, aiming at the general direction where Loki found Frost, and sees a hulk of a man, roaring his applause, his strong jaw lined with a sunny yellow beard. He is none other than the elder prince of Asgardia . . . Thor Odinson.

* * *

That night, Loki returns to the room after the other two, stealing in just minutes before curfew hits. He flops into a chair and exhales slowly, shakily. “I hate people.”

"You didn’t have to investigate by yourself,” Ciel sits up on his bed. “I could have had my butler ask questions, or I could have snooped around myself . . .”

"This was faster.”

"Yes,” Ciel admits with a sigh. “It was, provided you obtained the necessary information.”

"Frost has a soulmate who is also a Weston freshman, a certain Elsa of Arendelle. I know her from choir— she’s a powerful spellcaster, with the loveliest little snowman familiar. She’s perfectly deserving of admission, in my view.”

Draco looks up from the desk where he is measuring out potions ingredients. “How do they know they’re soulmates?”

"Trolls,” Loki says, and the others nod in whole-hearted understanding. “The two have been told to stay apart in public— which sounds most mysterious to me.”

"Well,” Ciel kicks off his covers and gets out of bed, “this is a fascinating revelation. I shall have my butler look into whether this Elsa is the subject of a prophecy that might concern Frost.”

"I realized something else, when I was talking to Thor,” Loki adds as Ciel starts writing a letter. “The king and queen of Asgardia are coming here next week, because the first Family Friday is almost upon us.”

He and Draco both groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spy references to _Death Note, Frozen, Eragon, The Incredibles_ , and the Septimius Heap series. Oh, and Jack's from _Rise of the Guardians_.


	8. Chapter 8

On the morning before the first Family Friday, a raven taps at the window while bearing an especially heavy package. It contains two letters about familial investigations— one which Ciel hands to Loki, one which he opens and reads himself, skimming over an update on a certain Cassadine family before landing on the meat of the letter.

“My butler has at long last finished his inquiry into the Frosts,” he announces, “only to find nothing.”

“Nothing?” Draco frowns, slurping his espresso.

“Nothing that’s useful for this case,” Ciel corrects. “No familial prophecies that could possibly apply to young Jack. And alas, the silly slowpoke still hasn’t gotten evidence on a prophecy for Elsa— he insists the search is ongoing.”

“Isn’t it remarkable to get answers from major archives in just a week?” Draco objects. “I heard the waitlists are months long, and the confidentiality laws are terribly strict . . .”

"Perhaps he’s done a relatively good job, but in the absolute sense he’s an utter disappointment . . .”

Ciel and Draco chatter on, oblivious to the tremble in Loki’s lip as he reads the letter that butler has written to him.

* * *

Friday night, Loki and Draco dine together with their families in the cafeteria. Nobody comes to see Ciel, so he tags along with his roommates. Though the dish quality has mysteriously skyrocketed on the night that many top Weston donors file in for dinner alongside their children, the conversation at this table has nothing to do with food.

"Taking one law seminar won’t kill you,” Lucius Malfoy snipes at his son, who immediately glowers in response.

Meanwhile, Thor orates to his parents, Frigga and Odin, for the second hour straight. “So then he wrestled me to the mat, and he thought he had me, except I wrenched my hand away and gave him a good left hook—”

Thor gesticulates wildly as he speaks, and Ciel, seated beside him, ducks to miss being hit by a good left hook himself.

“That law class you’re harping on is a known beast, and I don’t want to focus on it right now. I’m enjoying Potions far too much for that.”

“There’s no money in Applied Potions, Draco, and you’ve got to plan for the long-term . . .”

"So perhaps I should switch to Theoretical Potions,” Draco fires back. “Loki, that’s far more intellectually rigorous, isn’t it? Loki?”

Loki’s eyes flicker up from his barely-touched salad entree. He nods, then returns to studying the iceberg lettuce, face haggard after a night without sleep.

"So then I summoned Mjolnir, and I shouted, ‘Don’t you dare cross a child of Asgardia . . .’” Thor slams his hand on the table, rattling all the silverware, and Ciel’s expression becomes increasingly pained.

"There’s even less money in Theoretical Potions,” Narcissa Malfoy tuts, “unless you manage some massive breakthrough . . .”

"Is that so unthinkable?”

"Thor, dear, perhaps we should let Loki have a word in edgewise,” Frigga cuts in.

"Thor, have you met Loki often at school?” Odin talks over her.

"Loki?” Thor gives a booming laugh. “Come now, father, you know full well I spend all my days on the fields or in the stadium, while Loki does . . . whatever it is he does.”

"I once saw Thor after a race,” Loki mutters.

"He got nearly lost within the stands,” he sniggers. “Really, I’ve never met an Asgardian with less interest in proper sport.”

"Have you two found any girls who catch your eye?” Frigga asks.

"Several,” Thor replies promptly. “I’m on the lookout for the lady prophesied to be queen of my heart, as always.”

"Father,” Draco erupts across the table, “you haven’t said one worthwhile thing since you got here tonight, and I rather think you should go back to the Manor now!”

"How dare you speak to your father that way—”

"Because he’s going out of his way to be aggravating, and to be perfectly honest you are as well . . .”

Ciel nudges Loki and mutters, “I’ve never been so glad to be an orphan.”

At that, Loki looses a strangely vicious snort.


	9. Chapter 9

The diners leave soon, even before dessert. Draco fumes on the way back to the room: “Why the hell won’t they let me do Potions? I’m tempted to switch to Theoretical, just to screw with his head!”

"Odinson, your brother’s a handful,” Ciel comments, ignoring Draco. “I’ve never seen someone blather on that long . . .”

"He’s not my brother.”

Draco halts mid-complaint. “What did you just say?”

"You heard me." Loki speeds up now, eyes fixed straight in front of him. “I’m not truly ‘Odinson’ either.”

"Are you speaking in the metaphorical, ‘I don’t fit in well with my family’ sense?” Draco hurries to catch up.

"Yes,” Loki mutters. “And also literally, in the ‘my father and mother are actually two non-Asgardians whom Asgardia knocked off’ sense.”

They reach their room and bolt through the force-field door.

"All right, kindly explain in full,” Ciel says, falling onto his couch, and Draco takes a seat beside him. Loki remains standing, pacing around the room, voice quiet but taut with anger.

"That investigation that your butler so graciously conducted revealed that I am not by birth a child of Asgardia. No, I am a child of the monarchs of the land of ice . . .”

“Sorry to break the dramatic monologue,” Draco interrupts, “but which land of ice?”

“The only land of ice that matters, in Asgardia’s narrow worldview— Jotunheim.”

“Asgardia’s main rival,” Ciel whispers to Draco.

“I knew that!”

They fall silent as Loki fixes them with a glare. “According to the letter I received, I was actually picked up as an infant from the Jotun palace after my true parents, the king and queen, were brutally slaughtered in my room by Asgardian forces.”

“That explains the thestral thing, doesn’t it?” Draco mutters.

“What thestral thing?” Ciel frowns.

“It does, quite elegantly,” Loki replies, voice low and sarcastic. “It explains quite a bit more, too. It explains why I’ve always preferred reading and sophisticated spellwork to running and smashing things. It explains why I’ve always had a pacifist streak, despite steeping in one of the most militaristic cultures in history. It explains why I’ve never, ever been able to fall in love with a girl, despite . . . efforts. It explains, ever so simply, why I have not been able to fulfill the prophecy of Asgardia— it was never my prophecy to begin with.”

“You shouldn’t have tried so hard to fulfill it,” Ciel reproaches. “There wouldn’t be negative consequences if you hadn’t . . .”

“No negative consequences? Hardly,” he spits. “I was the prince of Asgardia, on show beside Thor every day of my life, and yet I could never do a damn thing right. And I wondered, every night of my life, why I couldn’t be like them, why I couldn’t just be normal . . .”

“Excuse me.”

A voice from outside interrupts Loki. It is slightly distorted by the force field, yet the roommates recognize it at once.

“How may we help you, Your Majesty?” Ciel calls, rising and striding to the door.

“You may start by letting me in.”

Loki pales. “I don’t want to speak to him.”

“We’ll send him away,” Draco says.

“No, please don’t,” Ciel implores. “I don’t want a king angry at me, I might need to use him in the future . . .”

“Oh . . .” Draco moans and looks back at Loki, who instantly bounds over the couch and into his room, slamming the door. Ciel disables the field, then, and in steps Odin Borson. He surveys the room, groaning as he finds only Ciel and Draco, and demands, “Where is Loki?”

Ciel straightens to his full height of five feet, looks Odin straight in the eye, and replies, “He stepped out for some green tea.”

"He’ll likely be sidetracked by the library, of course,” Draco supplies with a snort. “Phantomhive, how much do you want to bet he’ll get lost in some Elvish tragedy for hours?”

"I’m not taking that bet.” Ciel launches a perfectly natural scowl at Draco. “He’ll probably scamper back in, mere seconds before curfew.”

Odin shifts his eyes between them— or rather, his right eye, as the left is covered by an eyepatch— and grunts. “So you’d suggest I check the library?”

"That or Anteiku . . .” Draco answers.

"Anteiku’s the only place for decent tea and coffee at this hour,” Ciel explains. “It’s my best find on campus.”

"Your best find? I was the one who told you about it . . .”

As they descend into ritualized bickering, they see Odin turn to go, but he then stops.

"You have seen Loki more often than even Thor has, this year. Tell me, has he engaged in any . . . improprieties?”

"Improprieties?” Ciel raises his eyebrows but keeps his expression otherwise neutral.

"What do you mean by that?” Draco asks, face likewise blank.

"I mean that my son showed up to dinner in a near-catatonic state,” Odin snaps, “looking like death warmed over, inexplicably fascinated by arugula, and unable to string more than five words together.”

Draco furrows his brow, puzzling over the statement. Ciel understands first and barks out a laugh. “You thought he was high?”

On instinct, Draco rolls his eyes at the king of Asgardia. “Have you even met him?”

"Study drugs, maybe." Ciel shakes his head. "No, he’s too brilliant to need them . . .”

"Only thing he gets high off of is Arithmancy proofs,” Draco exclaims. “Really, he goes bouncing off the walls at office hours . . .”

"He’s not using recreational drugs, there’s no chance,” Ciel concludes.

“I would love to believe you,” Odin says, “yet deception has always been one of Loki’s main talents.”

“How do we prove his innocence?” Draco regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.

“You may start by showing me his room.”

Draco and Ciel share a look.

“That’s quite the invasion of privacy,” Ciel says.

“Extraordinary circumstances require extraordinary measures.”

Draco leaps up, darts to Loki’s door, and pokes his head in— only to find the room deserted. He throws the door open and says, “The place seems presentable enough. Come on in.”

Odin marches in, and Ciel and Draco watch as he inspects the place, thumbing through bookshelves laden with textbooks and Elvish novels, rifling through pants and shirts hung neatly in the closet, even peeking under the bed skirt. At last he turns to Loki’s two mahogany trunks, inlaid with intricate golden patterns, and flips them open. In one, he finds more books and regular clothes. In the other, he reveals an arsenal of smoke bombs, knives and assorted defensive tools. He takes each item out, examines it, and then sets it beside him on the floor with a sigh.

"All set, then?” Ciel asks when the trunk is empty.

Odin ignores him, instead muttering a charm, and a click rings through the room. With a heavy sigh, he leans forward and lifts out a panel of wood— a false bottom.

"Will his lies never end?” he murmurs.

Ciel and Draco barely dare breathe as Odin reaches back into the trunk, unearthing the secret stored beneath— a green lace nightgown.

Silence.

"No,” Odin breathes, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. “No, Loki . . .”

"That’s my dress,” Draco blurts.

Odin’s head snaps up. “What did you just say?”

“I was hiding it from my family, since I'm not quite sure how they'd react. I told Loki I had something to hide from them, and I swore it wasn't anything illegal, and he so kindly offered me this spot."

Odin narrows his eyes. "So Loki doesn't even know about this . . . thing?"

"No, of course not," he chuckles. "Why would I tell him? He's so damn serious, he couldn't offer me any help at all."

"Help?" Odin intones.

"Styling help, obviously," Draco babbles. "Speaking of which, I was wondering if you could give me some advice. I love your hair, it's got that well-kept look, without seeming oily in the slightest, and so I have to ask— what's your conditioner?"

Odin's mouth falls open, and he hands the dress to Draco. "I think . . . I will go look for Loki in the library now."

He hurries out.

Loki drops his invisibility charm and slides out from under the bed, gasping with laughter. "I can't . . . believe . . . that just happened . . ."

"Oh, Odins— Loki," Draco drops to the floor and hugs him as his laughter morphs, inevitably, into sobs.


	10. Chapter 10

“Are you sure you want to keep working on Arithmancy? You could go read some Latin . . .”

“I don’t need to study for Latin.”

“Read it for entertainment, then.”

Loki glances up at Draco, silently shakes his head, and stares back at the Arithmancy proof he’s been trying to untangle for the past two hours.

All of Weston is currently entrenched in midterm season, and the three roommates have strewn their living room with study materials. Half-finished potions simmer and steam on Draco’s desk, a foot-long Elvish scroll scrawled with annotations stretches unfurled across Loki’s, and stacks of fat Latin dictionaries and grammar guides lie on Ciel’s mattress, which he has left pulled out all day. “If I must subject myself to this torture,” he announced, “I will at least laze on down pillows while doing so.”

Loki in particular flings himself into his studying. He works to dawn, cranking out essays feet longer than required, slaving through translations and problem sets, switching from green tea to black tea to coffee simply for the caffeine. As the circles under Loki’s eyes deepen, Draco and Ciel exchange frowns behind his back.

Just moments before curfew strikes, Ciel dashes into the room, bringing three tall coffee cups and a perilously tall stack of Anteiku pastry boxes. Draco throws down his Arithmancy notes, rushes towards him, and plucks out his own cup, leaving Ciel to deal with the rest of the items. He takes a full gulp, only to grimace. “What sort of poison is this?”

“Herbal tea. You need to quit drinking espresso at midnight.” As Draco starts to protest, Ciel tilts his head at Loki. “Both of you.”

Draco scowls but falls silent.

Loki arranges his own notes in a neat pile and then rises to take his own cup. “Ciel, how did you even obtain such a spread this late? Didn’t Anteiku close before you even left the room?”

“I have my ways,” Ciel answers, cheeks suddenly red. “He also threw in breakfast for tomorrow, so we don’t have to bother with the cafeteria.”

“He?” Draco raises his eyebrows.

“They,” Ciel corrects. “Well, it was a ‘he’— a young man— who actually made the coffee and the pastries.”

“There was no need to bring all this for me,” Loki murmurs as Ciel hands him a box of pastries.

“Well, I did it anyway.” Ciel shrugs. “I got you one of their new items. It reminded me of you.”

Loki opens the box to find . . .

“A princess cake,” Draco whispers. “I loved those when I was small.”

“How is this like me?”

“Well, it’s pure green,” Ciel snorts, “your trademark color, as our suite’s walls sadly prove. The shell is perfectly smooth and blank— like the poised expression you so serenely wear. Inside, there’s some fluff, sure, but also true substance, layers of sponge cake alternated with heavy cream. On top, I see a pink flower, just a touch of elegance . . . And of course there’s the fact that the coating is marzipan, and I’m allergic to almonds.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “You were so close to saying something nice.”

“I know,” he grimaces. “Fortunately, I averted that crisis.”

Loki accepts the cake from Ciel with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

* * *

“Finally!” Ciel gives a downright villainous cackle when he receives his morning mail. “My butler has advanced the case— Elsa is considered the top candidate for a prophecy concerning two soulmates, kept at Level 6 confidentiality.”

“So what does it say?” Draco pipes up.

“I still don’t know. He managed to, er, secure a copy of a memory of the soothsayer’s original pronouncement.”

“Secure?” Loki raises an eyebrow. “Is there any chance that’s legal?”

“Not exactly, and he’s been . . . detained as a result.” Ciel frowns as he considers the memory, contained in white strands suspended within a vial. “He didn’t have a chance to examine it himself.”

“You shouldn’t use the official school Pensives to view it,” Loki says. “They have far too many surveillance wards nowadays . . .”

“True, so what the hell do I do now?” Ciel groans.

“I am a master alchemist, you know.” Draco smirks. “I can hack a Pensive together, no problem.”

* * *

 That night, Draco drops his head onto a book and moans, “I hate everything.”

“You said you’d have no trouble making a Pensive,” Loki teases. “I thought you’d have it done it a day at the most.”

“So did I, but I’ve never seen a more incorrigible recipe list! Two ingredients are banned internationally, a few of the others are expensive enough to bankrupt a small country, and one of them is made from a now extinct plant species.”

“That . . . actually does sound impossible.”

“I’ll have it brewed in a few weeks.”

“Naturally.”

* * *

“Through sheer brilliance, I have compiled a list of possible substitute ingredients,” Draco announces, “I can obtain most of the ingredients from the Potions cabinet, but I need help on a few.”

“Ask away,” says Loki.

“I need a mushroom with a red-and-white spotted cap.”

“There’s a brick in the dungeons that produces them if you hit it with your head,” Ciel says. “And I’ll wear a helmet this time . . .”

“I need a blue ribbon inscribed with a Dark Elf incantation.”

“Provide me the text, and I’ll copy it at once,” Loki says.

“I need precisely one pound of human flesh.”

“Done,” Ciel replies far too quickly.

“I need a cask of Amontillado.”

“Er.”

“Um.”

“Well, we could always . . . No, we couldn’t.”

After a half hour of failed plotting, Draco moans. “It’s practically impossible to get alcohol onto campus without a pre-existing distribution system. I don’t know how to pull this one off.”

“My butler might have had a chance,” Ciel sighs, “yet he is not currently free to act, and I don’t want any of my other servants poking around the wine cellar . . .”

“Thor said the fraternities manage to hoard fine liquors, despite a host of school rules,” Loki says. “I don’t suppose anyone we know goes to fraternity parties?”

Ciel raises his eyebrows, and Draco flat-out laughs.

One evening several days later, the magpie taps the window. It holds a shimmering gold-plated scroll— an invitation to a party held at a fraternity on the night of the second Family Friday.

Fortunately, both the Odinson and Malfoy families decide to skip this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spy references to the Super Mario games and an Edgar Allen Poe story.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I inexplicably forgot to post this chapter at first, so I am now inserting it into the story. Please forgive me for the confusion!

“Harder!” Ciel cries. “Do it harder!”

"Ciel, give him a break,” Loki pants, fanning his flushed face. “I’m on the verge of swooning over here. Isn’t it hot all of the sudden?”

“If you can’t handle this, go lie down again,” the earl gasps. “And Draco, I said _harder_ , I’m not some little doll!”

“There’s no way you can take anymore— it’s so damn tight!”

“Yes, how can you even breathe?” exclaims Loki.

"My butler would’ve gotten twice that length done by this point . . .”

“Twice? You’re exaggerating!”

“Now that I think about it,” Loki murmurs, “I will go to the chaise lounge and have that lie-doooown . . .”

Partway through the word, he faints away, sinking to the floor amidst the clouds of a crinoline petticoat.

“Maybe he should skip the corset.” Ciel says, glancing at Loki, and Draco nods with a wince. Then he returns to lacing Ciel’s own corset, gingerly pulling the strings out even further than before.

* * *

 

The invitation that the magpie so conveniently pilfered was not addressed to any one person— fraternities, with their dubious activities, never explicitly named their associates— yet sophisticated charms locked the scroll so only its intended addressee could open it. Ciel fussed with the charms for a few moments and then easily broke the seal.

“I would have needed at least an hour to disable those,” Loki whispered to Draco.

“Same . . .”

"The invitation is for one man,” Ciel announced upon unfurling the scroll. “There will indeed be a variety of excellent wines and spirits served, most likely including an Amontillado, and there will also be—” he cursed under his breath— “dancing. Each man is encouraged to bring along one or two girls. The event will occur on the first night of the second Family Weekend.”

“How are we going to get two more invitations by then?” Draco asked. “Oh. Right. I suppose you can go alone.”

Ciel winced at that. “I’d rather have some back-up.”

"I could wear a dress, I suppose,” Loki mused. “I should be able to do something with the nightgown . . .”

"No need for that,” Ciel cut him off. “I’ll have my family seamstress mock up something for you— for both of us. Hm, perhaps she can tailor that green gown from Germania . . .”

The next day, a courier delivered two large boxes stamped “Hopkins” to their door. Inside, Ciel found no pinned-up old gowns— instead, there were layers upon layers of new dresses, gloves, stockings, high heels, make-up, wigs . . . And of course the corsets.

Ciel settles on a baby blue cocktail dress with a corset to give him an hourglass shape. After losing his battle with a corset, Loki chooses a discreetly padded little black dress. They both decide on gloves, dark stockings and long, luxurious wigs— auburn for Loki, a rebellious steel-blue for Ciel.

Loki paints his nails black and adds an illusion to raise his voice, though he declines to do the same for Ciel. “How much of a difference would it really make?"

After a bit more fussing, they stand before a mirror, utterly transformed. Draco preens, resplendent in his black dress robes, while Loki and Ciel pose on either side, nearly unrecognizable thanks to layers of exquisite magical make-up.

“Astounding,” Draco breathes. “My father said I’d never get a pretty date, and here I am with two.”

“Watch it,” Ciel glares. “I’m not just your date. I will be the date of everyone I can possibly use. I will seduce all the men, all the women, and everyone besides as a means to fulfill my quest.”

They all chuckle at that, then fall into a wondering silence.


	12. Chapter 12

"My final round of research confirms that the fraternity has a wide assortment of specialty drinks,” Ciel says, brushing his wig one last time before they head out, “distributed among three dispensaries. These storage rooms are all locked, with guards placed in front.”

Loki hums while slipping on his long black leather boots. “Can we ask them for specific drinks?”

"We’re not supposed to, according to etiquette,” Ciel answers. “Fortunately, we’re not trying to get a second invitation, so damn etiquette.”

"All we have to do,” Draco remarks, “is see whether they serve the Amontillado automatically and siphon some off. If they don’t serve it, we’ll simply make friends with the guards and convince them to give us some Amontillado. Not too difficult— we’re a likeable lot, after all.”

“I agree,” Ciel concludes. “As missions go, this should be quite straightforward.” 

* * *

They arrive exactly on time, having left plenty of time for navigating the web of underground passages that tunnel around the fraternity’s halls. As they approach the bouncer, Draco flashes his invitation with a haughty sneer, while Ciel and Loki hang onto his arms and flash brilliant smiles. They waltz in without difficulty, expecting an airy, well-lit ballroom, where waiters scuttle about with _hors d'oeuvres_ and a violin quartet plays a light tune in the corner . . .

They find a rave.

"Ugh!” Draco slams his hands over his ears as throbbing club music crashes down on him. “What is this, a dwarven rock opera?”

“Wha— what are those three doing over there?” Loki squints into the darkness, sliced occasionally by bursts of multicolored pixie dust.

“Get it together.” Ciel pulls down Draco’s arms, yanks the two towards him, and shouts into their ears. “Let’s make initial observations, and—”

Loki casts a spell, enveloping them in a bubble of silence that dulls outside noise.

"AND WE CAN—” Flinching at his now overly-loud voice, Ciel quiets down. “And we can divide and conquer. You all drank that antidote cocktail I mixed up, didn’t you?”

“Yes—” Draco nods— “we are all inoculated against fratboy mystery punch.”

"There’s actual punch on the side table,” Loki observes, “and a bowl of Bloody Mary, and . . . a bowl of blood. No Amontillado.”

"This isn’t quite as high-class an event as I expected,” Draco sniffs. “Why everyone falls over themselves for an invitation is beyond me—”

"Focus, Draco,” Ciel scolds. “Now, the first dispensary is over by that pathetic excuse for an orchestra, and I happen to recognize the guardian— he assists in teaching the advanced ballet classes. And if his dancing at all matches his character, he is elegant, gracious, and refined in every way. I’ll take him down.”

“I’ll take the second one,” Draco says, gesturing towards another door. Before it stands a pale, black-haired woman who surveys the whole party with profound disinterest. “She looks like she might appreciate my company.”

“That leaves the third to me,” Loki murmurs. “It’s not so visible, but I’ll slip off and find it.”

Thus they split up to pursue their individual missions.

“Greetings,” Ciel says, flashing his most charming smile, “I’m Robin. And you, I assume, are an angel newly fallen from heaven.”

The guardian turns around, and Ciel realizes with a start that he has cloth cat ears on his head. Then Yuri Plisetsky gives him a sullen glare and growls, “The hell do you want?”

* * *

Draco strolls up to the bored-looking woman by the second door and says, “Hi.”

“Hi.” She gives him an encouraging, flirtatious smile.

“This party leaves a lot to be desired, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, they’re a whole bunch of stupid posers,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’re not, though, are you?”

“I—”

“My name’s Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way.”

“That’s . . . A fascinating moniker.”

“Yeah, the ‘Ebony’ bit is because of my hair—” she smoothly flips her long hair over her shoulder, and Draco sees it does indeed gleam ebony, with streaks of purple and red mixed in— “and the rest of it is because I’m a vampire.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, that’s why they put me in charge of this storehouse. Everything in here has some sort of blood.”

“So there’s no plain wine to be found here?”

“Nah, that’s for preps.”

“Ah,” Draco replies. “Well, this has been a stimulating discussion, but I need to head back to my friends—”

“What, you’re just going to leave me like that?” 

“Er . . . Yes?”

Suddenly, her icy blue eyes fill with limpid tears as Draco watches with alarm.

“You bastard!” she shouts angrily, turning heads across the room.

* * *

Loki takes one look at Crabbe and Goyle, who loom at the end of a hidden hallway, guarding the final dispensary, and he drops all plans of seduction. Instead, he reaches into his clutch and extracts two cupcakes that he stole from Ciel’s latest hoard from Anteiku and a vial of a sleeping draught slyly poured from one of Draco’s cauldrons.

He pours the potion on the frosting, covers the stain with illusory rainbow sprinkles, and places them on a dish. Hips swinging, he sashays down the corridor. “Hey, would you two like some dessert?

Just minutes later, they’ve slipped to the floor with a satisfying _thunk._ Loki throws a glance over his shoulder to verify he’s alone and then starts rummaging through their pockets for a key.

“Alas,” he whispers, “the cupcakes are a lie.”

* * *

“Drop dead!”

Ciel turns on his heel and stomps away from Yuri empty-handed. He heads over to the second door, only to hear a shrill scream— “Get the hell out of here!”

And Draco is stumbling away, wearing a look of perfect bewilderment. “I don’t understand, I just said I didn’t know who Amy Lee was—”

“I just got hit with more cuss words than that time I joined a circus.”

“Shall we try and find Loki? Maybe he’s had more luck.” They start to push through throngs of revelers towards the back of the main room, only to pause as screams break out near the entrance.

“What the hell—” Draco sputters as a new group of people storms in, clad head to toe in red robes.

“Ugh, and I thought this couldn’t get messier,” Ciel groans. “Anybody got a boiler room filled with zombies?”

Draco looks him. “Dare I ask why you want to know?”

The room around them explodes with chaos. Drinks, shoes, curses, and actual curse charms fly all around, and Ciel starts to smile as he surveys the wreckage.

“We’re getting out of here,” he declares, taking Draco’s hand.

“We can’t leave Loki behind!”

“He’ll make it out just fine. Look!”

Draco looks backwards and finds the entire back of the room swallowed up by fog from a military-style smoke bomb.

“Oh, right,” Draco mutters, rolling his eyes even as Ciel drags him through the crowds and towards the door. “The solution to chaos is to compound it, I should have known.”

“He might have compounded chaos for everyone else, but he restored some control to himself, since only he’s trained to function in that haze,” Ciel shouts back. A red-robed woman tries to block Ciel’s way, but he simply raises one leg and jabs her in the knee, driving his heel through the cloth and into her flesh. “Huh, the dancing lessons paid off.”

Only a few moments later, they spill out into the hallway, and Loki follows mere feet behind, clutching his purse and a cask of Amontillado. “What the hell was that?”

Ciel takes the alcohol from him with a grin and barks, “Let’s move, and I’ll explain— well, not everything, but maybe half of what just happened.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spy references to Portal, My Immortal, Tokyo Ghoul, and Monty Python. Thanks to idonquixote for giving me that last idea!


	13. Chapter 13

“Essentially,” Ciel says once they’ve escaped to a quiet passageway, skulking back to their dorm, “there are four major forces in our world.”

“Good, evil, law, and chaos,” Draco recites from books he’s read since early childhood. “And they perfectly balance one another out, achieving true neutrality, right?”

“Perfect . . . Is an overstatement.”

Loki frowns. “What does that mean?”

“There have been unusually powerful manifestations of one particular quadrant, over the past century,” Ciel replies. “Lawful evil.”

“How do you know?” asks Draco.

“It’s a Phantomhive thing,” he mutters. “Or it was, before me. But at any rate, the world is currently afflicted by an extraordinarily high number of self-righteous moralizers who force their views on others at all costs. Case in point— today’s invaders. A secret society dedicated to stamping out bacchanalia and other forms of revelry, originally based in the University of Hispania.”

“I think I’ve read about them,” Loki remarks. “Aren’t they known as Inquisitors?”

“That’s them,” Ciel answers with a grim nod. “And honestly, I should have expected their interruption. Damn schoolwork, it’s distracting me from other goings-on . . .”

“What happens,” Draco says, “if lawful evil starts to dominate?”

“All hell breaks loose, unless it gets balanced out by good and chaos.”

“And what does that mean in practice?” Loki asks.

“It means the world will likely be saved by one or more bands of benevolent, intelligent rule-breakers,” Ciel replies. “People who never take the expected road, who find clarity in causing confusion for everyone else.”

“So,” Draco says, “the three of us are uniquely well-poised to save the world?”

They wait in silence for a moment, then break into laughter.

* * *

 When they approach their room, they find a figure waiting outside, standing in a slightly unnatural pool of shadows and cloaked in a long, black coat.

Loki and Draco halt in their tracks. “Who’s that?”

“That’s my butler,” Ciel says with a shrug, walking forward.

“So,” Draco gapes, “the fussy old guy who putters around with the cakes . . .”

“Is apparently an angel on earth,” Loki finishes.

The closer they get, the more appropriate Loki’s description seems— the man looks only a few years older than them, yet there is something ancient, timeless in his mien. He holds himself entirely still, like a statue of Parian marble, and his skin shimmers like moonlight, just as a Veela’s does.

Suddenly Loki bursts forward with a new swagger in his step, shaking out his hair, and says, “Greetings, Mister—”

“Sebastian,” Ciel supplies, but Loki doesn’t even react, just keeps his gaze locked on Sebastian’s wine-red eyes.

The butler turns to Ciel and scans his dress, raising an eyebrow. Then his stare skims over Draco and lands on Loki, roving up and down and back up again, and a lopsided grin spreads across his face.

“Marvelous boots,” he remarks, his voice rich and low, “and nails.”

“Thank you,” Loki replies, not breaking eye contact.

“His boots are the same leather as mine,” Draco interrupts, but they ignore him. Spluttering, he turns to Ciel and finds him watching the two with a contemplative expression.

“Might I—” says Sebastian.

“Of course,” Loki answers, stepping forward and disarming the charm that keeps non-residents out of their room. He enters with Sebastian, and the other two follow.

Draco squints at them both before stuttering, “I . . . I need to go change. Can you start measuring out the alcohol for the potion?”

“Oh—” Sebastian says to Ciel, eyes wide— “did you successfully obtain your Amontillado, young master?”

“Don’t look so surprised that I did something on my own,” Ciel smirks.

“I never doubted your ability for a moment,” Sebastian says, voice thick with sarcasm. “And I’m sure it’s only coincidence that I brought a back-up bottle of Amontillado.”

Indeed, a brand-new cask of Amontillado materializes in his hands at that moment.

“How could I be a Phantomhive butler if I could not talk my way out of detention early, cross the globe twice in an hour, and obtain this in order to support my master in his time of need?”

Draco scowls at this speech, but Loki’s clearly enchanted, pupils darkening, cheeks blushing. Ciel just rolls his eyes and says, “Draco, I’ll start on the measuring.”

“Good . . . good.” Draco dashes into his room, shaking his head in bemusement.

When he sprints back out only minutes later, having refreshed his cologne and donned a new hunter-green robe, he finds Loki pressed against the wall, one leather-clad leg wrapped around Sebastian, hands tangled in the butler’s hair, eyes fluttering closed as he loses himself in a kiss.

“What the _hell_?” Draco breathes.

“Shall we—” says Sebastian.

“Yes,” Loki murmurs.

And then Sebastian is scooping Loki up and carrying him bridal-style into his room, kicking the door shut. There’s the sound of a lock turning, then a throaty moan cut short as a silencing charm slams down around the room.

“That— that sound was _Loki_ ,” Draco gasps, then spins to face Ciel. “Does your butler always do this?”

“It’s not wholly unexpected, no,” Ciel snorts. “I had asked him to try to relieve Loki’s malaise, and he’s always found seduction one of his more effective tactics. If you’re worried that there was any sort of coercion or mind control involved— don’t. He doesn’t have to resort to anything so crude.”

As he hears all this, Draco wilts, for reasons he can’t quite identify. “Can I mix the wine in now?”

“Please do. And then after that you can have the new cask of Amontillado for your own purposes— you look like you’d appreciate it more than I would.”

Draco grunts in agreement and moves to his cauldron, starting his work. Outside, a light snow begins to fall.

* * *

 “Young master?” Sebastian says, when he emerges from Loki’s bedroom early the next morning, fully dressed without a hair out of place.

“I assume you enjoyed yourself?”

“Of course, I’ve always enjoyed a creative illusion. If I may be frank, I am mildly surprised you didn’t end up with _him_.”

“Bite your tongue!”

Sebastian takes a dramatic chomp and removes the end of his tongue between two fingers, holding the semicircle of flesh up for Ciel to see. “Is this satisfactory, young master?”

“Quite so, provided you don’t bleed on the floor,” Ciel chuckles. “But now for some serious business. Are you unscathed from the archive incident?”

“I assure you I am. Angela— Ash no longer has any hold on me.”

“And what did you learn of your detour with the Cassadines, hm?”

“As you predicted, their new magic is not intended to deal simply in diamonds, but their blasted Afghans would have raised the alarm had I trespassed any further.”

“Hmm. I do wonder what dear Mikos has cooked up this time.” Ciel considers that for a moment, then sighs. “This potion seems to have settled down from the Amontillado now— the bottle I got worked just fine, for your information.”

“Of course, young master. As I said, I never doubted your ability to achieve your goals.”

“I completely believe that,” he says, voice matching Sebastian’s sarcasm. “I’m heading to bed now. Before your license to stay on school grounds expires, I’ve got one more order for you to carry out.”

Sebastian glances around the room. “I believe I already know it. Consider it done.”

* * *

When Draco and Loki stumble out of their rooms the next afternoon, the cries go up in unison: “ _What the hell!_ ”

Looking around the central room, stripped of green paint and illusions and entirely redecorated with navy blue, Ciel takes a calm sip of tea. “How could Sebastian be the Phantomhive butler if he did not introduce our colors into my quarters?”

Draco launches into an angry tirade— “Now this looks like some overactive water mage’s house!”— while Loki hears Sebastian’s name and just starts giggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spy references to Monty Python and _General Hospital_.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second-to-last chapter!

Loki’s mood warms, yet the snow outside carries on for days on end. The fluffy heaps gray and turn to slush underfoot, before freezing over again in pools of black ice. While students slip and crash into each other, the temperature plummets.

Inside the suite, the Pensieve bubbles and fizzes. Every few minutes, one of the three roommates walks by to check if—

“Yes!” Loki exclaims. “It just turned milky-white, it’s finished now!”

Draco scurries right over, and Ciel follows after grabbing the memory. He unscrews the jar and tips it into the Pensieve. They bend forwards and tumble right into another room.

It’s a grand banquet hall, by the looks of it, though only three men sit around the table. Ciel surveys it quickly. “The insignia is that of the Crane family—”

“Ah!”

They turn around at the shriek and find a young woman stopped in her tracks, holding a tray of food.

“I see!” she sings in a warbly soprano.

“What is it?” One of the men— the youngest of the three, slender with light-colored hair— shoots to his feet. “What do you see, Daphne?”

“In this coming winter,” she declares, eyes wide and misty, voice ringing with the weight of destiny, “an upstart tyrant shall seek to order this world, remaking it by his own philosophy.”

“Mikos Cassadine,” Ciel mutters under his breath. “Though I suppose he’s not the only Lawful Evil nut running around . . .”

She continues, “He shall form new magic to blanket our world in crippling snows, strangling all until they bow down. But! But there is a flaw in his magic, a key to unlock it and bring it all crashing down.”

“Tell us, Daphne,” the youngest man says, breathless.

“A certain student of Weston College can come forward and banish his meddling by a soulmates’ kiss, a princess of ice—”

Three jaws drop.

“— with a cool mask and stormy temper, with a subtle touch, with respect for laws and more for lawbreaking, blessed with magical brilliance and a loyal familiar.”

She abruptly starts and then looks at the three men strangely. “Why are you all looking at me funny?”

The Pensieve then hurls them out again. As they stagger backwards, Ciel exclaims, “So the Jack Frost case wasn’t frivolous nonsense after all! They must have realized Elsa is the princess in the prophecy and admitted Jack as her soulmate, and then kept the whole thing under wraps so no supporter of tyranny would try and do them in!”

“Only one problem,” Draco says.

“What?”

Draco and Loki simultaneously gesture at the window, where a storm rages outside, and Ciel’s face falls. “How— how come it’s still snowing? Surely they’ve already kissed.”

“No doubt,” Draco says. “But that looked like a legitimate prophecy to me, so I don’t know why the kiss hasn’t worked. Perhaps they aren’t actually Soulmates?”

“Or perhaps the prophecy’s been misinterpreted,” Ciel says. “Perhaps they’ve gotten the wrong princess of ice entirely.”

“From a linguistic perspective, the term ‘princess’ has unexpected ambiguities in the prophetic context,” Loki muses. “It can refer either to women, or to people who are neither strictly men _or_ women.”

“Dammit—” Ciel suddenly stamps his foot on the ground— “I wish I had socialized properly! I know almost nobody at this school.”

“Same here,” Draco grimaces.

“Who else could possibly fit the prophecy?” Loki says to himself.

At that moment, a chilled magpie alights on the windowsill, tapping anxiously on the glass and shivering. Loki rushes to let him into the warm suite, while the other two stare at him and his loyal familiar.

* * *

 

They storm down the hallways, past Jack and Elsa, tucked into an alcove and making out like lives depend on it, and towards the headmaster’s office. They are confronted by a large gargoyle that glares down at them and asks for a password.

“We’re trying to save the world,” Draco snaps, “how’s that for a password?”

“Liquorice allsorts,” Ciel spits, talking over him. “Milky babies. Murray mints. Fruit bonbons—”

“Chocolate rabbits,” says Professor Dumbledore, appearing behind the gargoyle, which dutifully steps aside to let the three roommates pass.

As they head into his office, Ciel raises his eyebrows. “You’ve had Phantomhive candy, Professor?”

“Once I got over the bitter taste of the dark chocolate, I felt they were superior to the chocolate frogs so commonly sold around here—”

“Ahem,” Draco nudges Ciel and clears his throat. “Remember we have to save the world?”

“I’m getting there, but as head of the family business I’d like to gather feedback from customers—”

“Professor Dumbledore,” Loki cuts in, “we are aware of the Level 6 prophecy indicating that a princess of ice must kiss their soulmate to save the world from tyranny. We believe you have interpreted the prophecy as referring to Princess Elsa of Arendelle. We also believe you’re dead wrong, and the true referent is I, Prince Loki of Jotunheim.”

Professor Dumbledore peers over the rims of his glasses. “A fascinating theory, to be certain. Have you a known soulmate?”

The three roommates look at each other.

“About that.”

* * *

 

Within an hour announcements go out through the entire school about a mandatory speed-dating event.

“I’ve given you the best sorting criteria I have at the moment,” Loki tells Ciel. “Put the male students at the front, rank them by grades, where there’s a close call prioritize the most pretentious majors. I’ll figure out what to do with everyone else if this doesn’t work— with any luck we won’t have to look off-campus.”

“Should I include non-humans?” Ciel asks.

Loki deliberates for a moment. “Put the non-human male students after the humans, sorted by the same criteria. It’s not that I’m not attracted to Nick Wilde, it’s just that . . . I’m not attracted to Nick Wilde. I think.”

For some reason, Ciel brightens upon hearing this. “All right, then. I’ll send in the first candidate momentarily.”

* * *

 

Loki smooths down his hair, pops a mint in his mouth, and paces around a small room, equipped only with two chairs and a window. After a few minutes of staring at the storm outside, he hears a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

In walks a young man with brown hair and brown eyes, wearing a white shirt with a brown tie and brown pants. He couldn’t be blander if he tried, Loki thinks.

“I’m Light Yagami,” the man says.

“‘Light’?” Loki raises an eyebrow. “Your parents like heavy-handed symbolism, then?”

The man just looks back at him, impassive.

“I suppose it’d be amusing if it turned ironic,” Loki adds, trying to fill the silence. “If you became a force of darkness, a— I don’t know— a serial killer.”

The man’s eyes narrow, and suddenly Loki feels a blast of cold through the air and wonders whether _Light_ ' _s_ not the prince of ice, after all.

“I apologize,” he says, “that’s not the best pick-up line. But as Ciel informed you, I am on a quest for a soulmate. A kiss should confirm it, and with your consent I’d like to—”

“I understand,” he says.

“Right.” Loki steps towards him and leans in for a kiss. It’s a perfectly unremarkable kiss, neither short nor long, and then Light pulls back.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” he says.

“Likewise.”

And Light turns to the door and steps back out of his life.

* * *

 

The next man sweeps in without knocking, and Loki is stunned for a moment— this new candidate’s all sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones and soft, ink-black curls. He’s wearing a strikingly long coat and a perfectly tailored trousers and a shirt that’s just tight enough to hint at chiseled muscles below. As soon as he presses the door closed, he whirls around and announces, “Sherlock Holmes. You I assume are—”

“Loki,” they say simultaneously.

“Prince of Asgard on paper,” Sherlock continues smoothly, “though by blood you’re a child of Jotunheim, and that’s really what we care about today, isn’t it?”

Loki’s eyes widen. “How can you know that?”

“Same way I know you drink green tea regularly though you’re starting to dally with Darjeeling, and that you tried on an auburn wig this morning, and that you’re concerned about your kanji final but only mildly, and that you think kissing me might turn off that raging blizzard outside. I see things others don’t notice. And, no—” he raises a hand— “I’m not a world-class diviner. Don’t feel too bad, it’s a common misconception.”

Loki can’t stop gazing at him, drinking in his deductions, reveling in his mysterious smirk. “Well, then. Let’s see whether this kiss works.”

It will work. He is sure of it. And indeed the kiss is pure magic, shooting heat through every part of him, as he presses forth with his lips and then his tongue—

Sherlock withdraws abruptly. “No, no, the magical signature’s all wrong. Good luck with your future kissing attempts. And do let me if you get hopelessly stuck on this whole Cassadine mess, I should be able to solve it in under two days. It’s not really _interesting_ in the slightest, but I can make an exception to save the world.”

He sweeps back out the door, leaving Loki blinking with shock.

* * *

 

Loki pulls his features back into some semblance of composure, in order to immediately lose it when the door opens again.

“What do you want?” he snaps.

“What do you mean?” Draco replies. “Ciel sent me in just now.”

“How is that possible?” Loki says. “I had him order people by grades--”

“And I scored perfectly on all my midterms,” he finishes. Then his eyes narrow. “What, don’t you think I’m intelligent enough?”

“I knew you were sentient, that doesn’t explain this.”

“I’m sorry,” he spits, “did you miss the first moment we met, when I told you I’m a master alchemist?”

“I didn’t miss it, thank you, but I’ll remind you that I duplicated your painting effect in, oh, one-hundredth of the time.”

“Oh—” Draco throws up his hands— “let’s just get this ridiculous kiss over with, shall we?”

Loki rolls his eyes. “Let’s.”

Draco pecks Loki on the mouth and spins around to leave, but then trumpets play, and the storm clouds part, letting a heart-shaped beam of light spill through the window and pool around them.

They glare at each other briefly, then groan in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spy references to _Frasier_ , _Death Note_ , _Zootopia_ , _Sherlock_ , and _General Hospital_.


	15. Chapter 15

The three roommates save the world, and two of them find true love, and then it’s time for final exams.

Draco and Loki have made some concessions to the grand magic binding them, and so they have begun studying for Arithmancy together, occasionally brushing against one another as they reach for books and rifle through notes. The three roommates have also sat down for serious negotiations on their suite’s decor. Though the walls remain blue, Ciel asked Sebastian for throw pillows and other accents in emerald green, and the butler sent back a plentiful array to place around the main room. They thus find a satisfactory balance— the overall effect is somewhat busy, to be sure, but they like the touch of chaos.

* * *

On the last night of finals season, Loki sprawls on a couch, wearing a lacy green nightgown and reading a Quidditch magazine. Draco sits by his feet with a mortar and pestle, crushing seeds for his final potions assignment while drinking the remnants of the Amontillado.

“I’m glad you’re taking a liking to Quidditch,” Draco tells him.

“Well, as your soulmate, I think it’d be helpful if we had more in common,” Loki says with a shrug. “Also, the enchantments on this magazine are extremely high-quality, and it’s got a picture of a Beater with, shall we say, an exhibitionist streak.” He laughs at Draco’s sputtering before saying, “Ciel?”

“Hm?” Ciel glances up from his Latin textbook.

“Have you decided whether you’re coming back to school after winter break?”

Ciel shuts his book and takes a deep breath. “After careful consultation with the Queen, I’ve decided to stay in school. The networking opportunities here are unrivaled, and I could use some more technical training in the field—”

“Of course his _friends_ have nothing to do with the decision,” Draco protests to Loki in mock-distress.

“Yes, I’m sure he didn’t spare a single thought for either of us—” Loki’s look of sorrow morphs into something more mischievous— “or for Ken.”

“What?” Ciel stutters. “Ken? Who’s Ken, I don’t know any Ken—”

“Oh, give it up,” Draco snorts, “you’re not the only investigator here. We know all about your ongoing coffee shop romance. It’s incredibly cliche, now that I think about it.”

“It’s good you didn’t consider him, actually,” Loki adds, “seeing how you don’t deserve him in the slightest.”

“Excuse me?!”

“He’s sweet,” Draco says, “sensible, insightful, modest, even-handed, kind to everyone, with excellent taste—”

“—in other words, nothing like you,” Loki finishes. “I can’t even imagine how you’ve convinced him to put up with you this far.”

Ciel drops his shocked expression for smugness. “Well, he says I’m _delicious_.”

Loki starts crowing with laughter and clapping, and Draco’s smirking as well.

“If you think he’s a precious angel, you’re sadly mistaken. But regardless,” Ciel admits, “I did take him into account, and you too. I don’t know how our arrangement works, we’re a convoluted mess of pretention and illegal impulses and, well, ‘daddy issues,’ but . . . we have something special, nonetheless. Our dynamic is perfectly balanced, in its own uniquely chaotic way.”

They all look at each other with gentle smiles, and Draco and Loki both start to speak— only to be interrupted by a sound at the door.

“It’s Professor Dumbledore here,” comes a distorted voice.

Ciel narrows his eyes. “Who wants to bet we’re about to being expelled?”

The three scramble to action, stashing the alcohol and throwing a blazer over the nightgown, though they leave their bags and study materials scattered scrolls the floor. When they finish, Draco walks up and removes the force field. “How can we help, Professor?”

Professor Dumbledore enters with a grave look. “As you are no doubt aware, we have had some unusual crowding in our dormitories this year.”

“We’ve noticed,” the three of them say together.

“It is with regret that I must inform you that a new roommate will be joining you after the vacation. He has entered school one term late due to . . . family issues, but I trust you will easily integrate him into your community.”

“Er.”

“Um.”

“Well—”

“Benjamin,” he says, ignoring them all and beckoning to someone in the hallway, “please come in to meet your future roommates, just for a minute.”

A hulking man stalks in. He’s dressed entirely in black, except for a scarlet scarf and a rust-colored belt and the bright red laces on his tennis shoes. His lip curls as he surveys the suite— done up in blue and green and terribly disorganized— and then he turns to Professor Dumbledore and sneers, “I told you, the name’s Kylo Ren.”

Loki, Draco and Ciel shoot looks at each other and hold an entire conversation in silence, through glances and raised eyebrows— “Who is this intruder?” “What’s his alignment?” “Lawful Evil, I agree.” “How do we deal with him?” “We could try getting along with him— I’m joking, obviously.” “We could convert him.” “We could play nice and manipulate him into doing whatever we want.” “Or we could just openly make his life hell from the start.” “It’s so fun when we have a common enemy . . .”

Openly, Loki simply dons a bland smile and says, “Thus our color scheme dies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Hope you enjoyed the chaos!
> 
> Also, I accidentally omitted some scenes from the middle of the story when I originally posted this fic. Those have now been added in as Chapter 11; hopefully this improves the overall flow!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated!


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